GIFT   OF 

Class  o£  19 oo 


MARY  CARLYN  DAVIES,  former  student  at  University  of 
California,  who  has  won  Morgenthau  poetry  prize.  She  is  a 
poet  and  novelist. 


THE    DRUMS   IN    OUR   STREET 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •   BOSTON  •    CHICAGO  •   DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •   SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •   BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD, 

TORONTO 


THE  DRUMS 
IN  OUR  STREET 

3  13oofc  of  Mar  porm s 


BY 


MARY   CAROLYN   DAVIES 


j  ;**-*»  j *j '*" 


Nttn 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1918 

tt  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  19x8, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  September,  1918. 


NorinooU  tyrtss 

J.  S.  Gushing  Co.  — Berwick  &  Smitn  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


So 

MY   THREE    BROTHERS 

SERGEANT  A.   H.   DAVIES 
COMPANY  E,  4™  BATTALION,  ZOTH  ENGINEERS,  A.E.F. 

SERGEANT  S.   L.   DAVIES 
COMPANY  D,  6TH  BATTALION,  ZOTH  ENGINEERS,  A.E.F. 

SERGEANT  L.   L.   DAVIES 

BASE  HOSPITAL  46,  A.E.F. 

FORMERLY  CORPORAL,  SEVENTIETH  BATTERY 

CANADIAN  FIELD  ARTILLERY 

(DISCHARGED  FOR  WOUNDS) 


382793 


THANKS  are  due  to  the  following  magazines  for 
permission  to  republish  many  of  these  poems: 

"Century,'*  "Poetry,"  "Touchstone,"  "Na 
tion,"  "Collier's,"  "Cosmopolitan,"  "Youth's 
Companion,"  "Everybody's,"  "  McClure's," 
"Good  Housekeeping,"  "Designer,"  "  Mun- 
sey's,"  "Smith's,"  "Ainslee's,"  and  others. 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 

THE  BLOOD-STAINED  CROSS        ....  3 

THE  DRUMS  ARE  ECHOING  IN  OUR  STREET      .  7 

AMERICA  1917-1918 8 

PEACE 9 

ON  LEAVE  IN  A  STRANGE  LITTLE  TOWN   .        .  10 

SOLDIER  LOVE 12 

A  BOY  SOLDIER'S  PRAYER 14 

"JOAN,  WHO  LEADS  THE  SOLDIERS"  16 

IN  OUR  STREET 19 

AT  WIPERS  AND  CALVARY 21 

A  CASUALTY  LIST 23 

THE  NEW  PLAYFELLOW 26 

EVAN 28 

WAR 31 

A  WAR  WEDDING 32 

SPRING  Sows  HER  SEEDS 33 

SMITH,  OF  THE  THIRD  OREGON,  DIES        .        .  36 

THE  MOVIES  IN  FRANCE 39 

[ix] 


Contents 

PAGE 

YOUNG  DEATH    .               41 

SCHOOLMATES       .......  43 

THE  DEAD  SON  .       V 46 

SOUNDS         ...        .        .        .        .        .  49 

"HIGHLANDERS,  Fix  BAYONETS"       *-      V       •  50 

"LET'S  PRETEND"       .       V'.       V       .        .  59 

FOR  A  YOUNG  SOLDIER       .        .        .   •    .        .  61 

IN  A  MIRROR       .        .,      ;        .        .        „        .  62 

PURGED  BY  WAR         .      ...        .        .        .  65 

ON  A  TROOP  TRAIN    .        .        .        .  _   .        .  66 

THE  GREAT  WAR        ....        .        .        .  68 

FIRE  OF  THE  SUN        .        .....        .69 

IF  HE  CAME  Now      .        .        .        .        .        .  71 

THE  CHINQUAPIN  TRAIL     .        .        .        .  73 

ON  AN  OLD  BATTLEFIELD   .  .  ;        .        -75 

THE  RECRUITING  STATION  AT  THE  NEW  YORK 

PUBLIC  LIBRARY 76 

THE  GENEROUS  GIVER 78 

THE  GAY  LAD  DEATH 81 

RICHARD  LOVELACE  AND  RICHARD  SMITH  .        .  85 

A  GIRLS'  WAR  SEWING  CLASS    .       >«        .        .  88 

TENEMENT  WINDOWS  .        .       .      -•        .        .  95 

THE  WAR  BULLETIN  .        .       .        .      >.        .  97 

THE  BIRDS  BETWEEN  THE  TRENCHES         .        .  98 


Contents 

PAGE 

A  CALIFORNIAN  IN  FRANCE        .        .       *      .*     99 
A  SONG  OF  SEVERAL  YOUNG  MEN     .        .        .    101 

RED  SUNDAY ,102 

MY  CHUM 104 

THE  LITTLE  TRAIL  TO  DEATH    .        .        .        .107 
WOUNDED  RED  CROSS  NURSE    .        .        .        .109 

PART  II 

THE  DRUMS  IN  OUR  SQUARE     .        .        .        .113 

LAST  NIGHT IJS 

ENLISTED Il8 

THE  BROKEN  PROMISE 120 

A  GREENWICH  VILLAGE  TEA  ROOM   .        .        .121 
AT  THE  GRAND  CENTRAL  STATION     .        .        .123 

"ANYTHING  You  WANT" 125 

A  SOLDIER'S  WIFE 127 


PART  I 


THE    DRUMS    IN    OUR 
STREET 

THE  BLOOD-STAINED  CROSS 

(From  a  rosary  found  on  the  body  of  a  poilu  killed  at  the 
battle  of  Festubert.) 

A  BLACK  cross  and  a  bloody 

With  a  small  Christ  on  a  tree, 
A  black  cross  and  a  bloody 

From  a  dead  man's  rosary, 
To  count  no  Ave  Marys 

To  say  no  prayers  by  rote 
A  black  cross  and  a  bloody 

I  wear  upon  my  throat; 

A  black  cross  and  a  bloody 
I  wear  upon  a  chain 

[3] 


The  Dris-ffw  in  Our  Street 

To  keep  in  this  my  body 
Still,  still,  his  body's  pain; 

A  black  cross  and  a  bloody 
To  let  me  not  again 

Sleep  satisfied  or  calm  until 
A  murderer  be  slain. 


The  young  dead  man  had  stiffened. ' 

His  fingers  held  from  harm 
In  wooden  clasp  the  cross  that  now 

Upon  my  throat  is  warm. 
About  him  fell  my  kinsmen; 

The  foe  they  could  not  stem; 
And  since  I  have  no  token 

I  keep  this  cross  for  them. 

Blackcrusted  blood  makes  holy 
The  black  cross  at  my  throat. 

[4] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

And  to  the  Christ  upon  it 
I  say  no  prayers  by  rote : 

Kind  prayers  I  have  forgotten, 
The  little  prayers  of  peace  — 

Until  a  death  be  compassed 
I  have  not  time  for  these. 


Until  his  death  be  compassed 

Who  slew  my  kin,  I  keep 
The  little  cross  upon  me 

To  tell  me,  in  my  sleep, 
Even  in  dreams,  to  strengthen 

My  arm  to  join  my  blow 
With  others  to  bring  death  to  him 

Who  laid  my  kinsmen  low. 

I  wear  the  black  cross  that  has  been 
In  a  dead  man's  hand.     I  dedicate 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

My  life,  my  power,  my  strength,  my  hate 
To  this  :  For  what  his  deeds  have  been 
To  slay  the  one  who  slew  my  kin. 

BEAUTY   AND    JOY   ARE    KIN   TO   ME 

AND  YOUTH.      WAR  SLEW  THEM  UTTERLY. 


6] 


THE  DRUMS  ARE  ECHOING  IN  OUR 
STREET 

The  drums  are  echoing  in  our  street. 
Each  has  heard  the  music  sweet : 
Jones,  and  Lena,  and  her  three 
Boys;    and  Mrs.  Rafferty. 

The  drums  are  echoing  in  our  street. 
They  change  each  life,  as  on  they  beat. 
And  Ruth  has  heard  them,  Glen,  and  Guy, 
And  Mrs.  Henderson  —  and  I. 


AMERICA   1917-1918 

A  nation  goes  adventuring! 

With  new  and  shining  mail 
A  nation  goes  adventuring 

To  seek  the  Holy  Grail. 

A  nation  leaves  its  money-bags, 
Its  fireside  safe  and  warm, 

To  ride  about  the  windy  world 
And  keep  the  weak  from  harm. 

A  nation  goes  adventuring, 

With  heart  that  will  not  quail, 

God  grant  it,  on  some  hard-won  dawn, 
Sight  of  the  Holy  Grail. 

[8] 


PEACE 

When  all  the  war  is  made  and  done, 
And  in  our  town  I  stand  once  more, 

From  other  homes  I'll  seek  out  one 
And  knock  upon  its  door. 

And  I  will  wait  there  patiently 
Until  I  hear  your  step,  and  then 

As  the  worn  door  swings  back,  will  see 
Your  face  look  out  again. 

And  that  is  all  peace  means  to  me  — 
Some  day  to  walk  up  past  the  store, 

And  past  the  corner  chestnut  tree, 
And  knock  upon  your  door. 

[91 


ON  LEAVE  IN  A  STRANGE    LITTLE 
TOWN 

On  leave  in  a  strange  little  town, 
Soldiers  and  sailors  are  chaffing  — 

With  eyes  deep  and  still,  faces  brown, 
Are  filling  the  streets  and  laughing. 

Free  from  the  trenches'  smother, 

And  their  deafening  days  and  nights, 

Some  are  kissing  a  happy  mother, 
Some  only  stare  at  the  sights. 

More  and  more  they  come  crowding 
Till  the  streets  seem  full  of  blue, 

Khaki  and  blue;    tired  sailors, 
Soldiers  whose  leave  is  due. 
[10] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

For  the   marching   and   shooting  and   drill 
ing 

Each  has  received  his  pay. 
After  the  hating  and  killing 

The  men  are  on  leave  today; 

Their  songs  ringing  sweet  and  free, 
Their  laughter  sounding  bold  — 

On  leave  in  a  strange  little  town 
Whose  streets  are  of  gold. 


SOLDIER  LOVE 

Soldier  love's  a  wild  love,  and  soldier  love's 

a  glad, 
And  that  is  the  love  he  gives  to  me.  —  And 

the  love  that  I  give  my  lad 
Is  a  keen  love  and  a  swift  love  and  a  gay 

love  and  a  blind. 
Time  enough  for  weeping  when  I  am  left 

behind. 

Time    enough    for    weeping    and    counting 

motives  then, 
When  the  feet  of  my  lad  have  fallen  in  step 

with  the  feet  of  the  marching  men. 
It's  the  soldier  love  that  he  gives  me,  the 

desperate,  reckless  sort 

[12] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

Which  comes  of  knowing  that  death's  abroad 
and  may  gather  one  in  for  sport. 

Soldier  love's  a  strange  love,  that  only  has 

today. 
Lean,  then,  from  the  saddle,  and  kiss  and 

ride  away ! 
Now  the  world  is  dying,  with  blood  its  ways 

are  wet, 
Soldier  love's  the  only  love  that  any  lass 

may  get. 


113] 


A  BOY  SOLDIER'S  PRAYER 

God,  I  have  the  excitement  here, 

The  thrill,  and  all  the  peasants  cheering 

And  crowding  in  from  far  and  near 
—  She  has  the  silence  and  her  fearing. 

And  I  have  youth  to  make  the  most 
Of  this  adventure.  She  is  old. 

Each  perilous  hour  of  mine's  a  ghost 
That  haunts  her  with  its  news  untold. 

We  only  give  ourselves,  and  we 

Have  songs  and  drums  to  keep  it  high, 

Our  courage.     But  the  mothers  see 
Their  children  go  to  live  or  die. 

And  soon  I'll  have  the  trenches,  and 
The  men,  the  banter  and  the  jesting; 
[14] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

The  joy  Pll  hardly  understand 
Of  perilous,  wondrous  questing. ' 

The  search  for  something  great  in  life, 

Some  heroism  in  my  soul, 
Even  in  the  mud,  the  noise  of  strife 

There  in  our  crowded  hole. 

God,  don't  mind  me,  I  ask  of  you, 
I've  all  the  comrades,  and  the  lark; 

And  men,  beside  me,  coming  too, 
If  I  must  go  into  the  Dark. 

***** 

But  in  a  house  back  from  the  street, 
Where  honeysuckles  with  their  stir 

Make  the  yard  Spring;  you'll  find  a  sweet 
Tired  woman.     God,  be  good  to  her. 


"JOAN,  WHO  LEADS  THE  SOLDIERS" 

Joan,    who   leads   the   soldiers,    listen   to   a 

prayer ; 
Joan,    who    heartens    fighting    men;     and 

makes  them  bold  to  dare, 

When  the  word  is  given,  side  by  side,  as 

soldiers  may, 
All  the  rain  of  hate  and  hell  because  you 

lead  the  way  — 

You  were  once  a  little  maid,  in  the  Spring 

you  had 
Pleasure    in    the    bashful    words    of    some 

comely  lad. 

[16) 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

If  you  have  not  quite  forgot,  lend  a  listen 
ing  ear; 

Joan  of  blessed  memory,  bend  to  me  and 
hear. 

Where   the   tallest   men    of   all,    where   the 

bravest  stand, 
You  will  see  a  stalwart  youth,  firm  of  eye 

and  hand : 

(Joan,   who  leads   the  soldiers,   listen   to  a 

maid !) 
You  will  know  him  by  his  eyes,  that  are  not 

afraid, 

You  will  know  him  by  his  mouth,  that  is 

laughing  still. 
—  When   from  out  the   angry   sky   singing 

missiles  spill, 

[17] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

You  that  lead  the  soldiers,  hold  your  blessed 

arm 
Before  the  face  of  my  own  lad,  and  keep 

him  safe  from  harm. 


[18] 


IN  OUR  STREET 

The  war  has  wakened  me  to  see 

The  greatness  in  the  clerk  across  the  way, 

The  high  nobility 

In  my  next  neighbor  whom  I  never  saw 

With  anything  of  awe 

Until   I    knew   her   sons   had   gone  —  three 

tall 
And    awkward    youths.     She    sings    about 

the  hall 

And  porch,  at  sweeping,  and  is  happier 
Than  all  the  town.     I  sometimes  look  at  her 
And  wonder,  and  wish  that  I,  too,  could  be 

gay. 

The  lanky  clerk  who  never  seemed  to  care 
About  big  things  —  he  went.  There  was  an  air 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

Of  being  on  great  projects,  in  his  face, 
A  trace 

Of  kingliness  I'd  not  have  thought  of  there. 
There  were   songs  within  him,   though   his 
lips  were  dumb. 

Because  of  these  two,  I, 
Though  I  am  cowardly,  try 
To    keep    from    weeping    when    no    letters 
come  — 


[20] 


AT  WIPERS  AND   CALVARY^ 

The  boy  who  was  first  to  die 

For  the  cause  they  are  fighting  for 

Links  his  arm  and  walks  with  the  lads 
Who  are  going  to  die  in  the  war. 

He  bled  in  agony 

A  very  long  time  ago. 
Now  they  greet  him  comradely, 

With  eyes  that  newly  know. 

They  are  brothers-in-arms  in  the  old, 

Old  war  that  is  never  done; 
So  with  him  they  jest,  as  they  march  and 
rest, 

In  the  snow  and  the  mud  and  the  sun, 

[21] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

With  the  boy  who  was  first  to  die 
In  the  fight  to  make  men  free. 

—  For  it  matters  little  where  one  goes  out 
At  Wipers  or  Calvary. 


22] 


A  CASUALTY  LIST 

There  was  always  waiting  in  our  mother's 

eyes, 

Anxiety  and  wonder  and  surmise, 
Through  the  long  days,  and  in  the  longer, 

slow, 

Still  afternoons,  that  seemed  to  never  go, 
And  in  the  evenings,  when  she  used  to  sit 
And  listen  to  our  casual  talk,  and  knit. 
And  when  the  day  was  dark  and  rainy,  and 
Not  fit  to  be  abroad  in,  she  would  stand 
Beside  the  window,  and  peer  out  and  shiver, 
As  small  sleek  raindrops  joined  to  make  a 

river 
That  rushed,  tempestuous,  down  the  window 

pane, 

[23] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

And  say,  "I  wonder  what  they  do  in  rain? 
Is   it   wet   there   in   the   trenches,    do   you 

think  ? " 

And  she  would  wonder  if  he  had  his  ink 
And  razor  blades  and  toothpaste  that  she 

sent; 

And  if  he  read  much  in  his  Testament, 
Or   clean   forgot,    some   mornings,    as   boys 

will. 

But  always  the  one  wonder  in  her  eyes 
Was,  "Is  he  living,  living,  living,  still 
Alive  and  gay  ?     Or  lying  dead  somewhere 
Out  on  the  ground,  and  will  they  find  him 

there?" 
She  closed   her  lids  each  night  upon   that 

look 

Of  waiting,  as  a  hand  might  close  a  book 
But    never    change    the    words    that    were 

within. 

[24] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

And  when  the  morning  noises  would  begin 
A  new  day,  and  a  young  sun  touched  the 

skies, 

Again  she  woke  with  waiting  in  her  eyes. 
/ 

But  that  is  over  now.     She  does  not  read 
The  lists  of  casualties,  since  that  one  came 
A  week  or  two  ago.     There  is  no  need. 
She's  making  sweaters  now  for  other  men 
And  knitting  just  as  carefully  as  then. 
There  is  no  change,  except  that  as  she  plies 
Her  needles,  swift  and  rhythmic  as  before, 
There  is  no  waiting  in  our  mother's  eyes, 
Anxiety  or  wonder  any  more. 


[251 


THE  NEW  PLAYFELLOW 

When  we  were  six  and  seven, 

What  games  we  used  to  know ! 
What  stern  adventures  centered 

Round  an  arrow  and  a  bow, 
Round  sticks  and  stilts  and  marbles ! 

And,  oh,  the  pride  we  knew, 
We  girls  who  were  admitted 

Into  the  scornful  crew 

Of  crimson-turbaned  pirates ! 

What  loyalty  our  clan 
Acknowledged  to  the  leader 

And  to  each  maid  and  man ! 
A  league  against  the  grown-ups, 

Our  kingdom  we'd  defend, 
[26] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

The  little  land  of  make-believe, 
Beyond  the  rainbow's  end. 

When  childhood's  game  was  finished, 

Still  in  our  little  street 
/ 

When  Spring  came  in,  how  often 

We  used  to  laugh  and  meet 
While  dusk  turned  green  to  blackness, 

And  blotted  out  the  blue. 
—  (It's  Spring !    The  blind  would  know  it, 

The  air's  so  soft  and  new.) 

But  I  am  very  lonely. 

The  moon  goes  up  the  hill 
And  yet  the  street  that  echoed 

Is  newly,  strangely,  still; 
For,  in  a  foreign  country, 

(O  scent  of  lilac  breath !), 
The  boys  I  used  to  play  with 

Are  playing  now  with  Death. 
[27] 


EVAN 

The  war  is  not  in  Europe.     No.     It's  here 
In  our  parlor,  underneath  the  chandelier 
Where  Evan  used  to  sit,  and  hold  his  head 
Within  his   hands,   a   problem  there  before 

him  — 
He  couldn't  make  the  thing  come  right,  he 

said. 
It  was  natural  to  watch  him  studying  there. 

There's  no  one  sitting  now  in  Evan's  chair; 
It's  curious  not  to  see  that  shock  of  hair 
And  those  hunched  shoulders.     No,  he  isn't 

dead, 
At  least,   we   haven't  heard   so  yet;    he's 

only 

[28] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

Across  there,  with  the  Engineers,  and  writes 
Often    enough.     We    read     them    here     at 

nights, 

The  letters,  and  the  natural,  commonplace 
Smudged   sentences   make   changes   in   each 

face. 

'Twould  be  ingratitude  to  say  we're  lonely : 
We've  all  the  girls  here  yet,  and  they  are 

good 

And  gentle,  doing  calmly,  as  they  should, 
The    chores    of   living.     And    we've    all    we 

need, 
Or  maybe  more,  to  eat  and  wear  and  read. 

We  have  each  other  and   the  girls.     Then 

he 
Likes  the  excitement  there,  he  writes,  and 

we 

[29] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

Must  not  feel  worried,  for  he's  fine  and  fit, 
And  proud  to  be  out  there  and  do  his  bit. 
It's  strange  that  I  should  mind,  should  fret 

or  fear  — 
Or  feel  the  war  is  not  in  France,  but  here  — 


[30] 


WAR 

We'd  not  have  had  the  grit  to  be  in  love 

Had  not  war  given  a  shove 

To   our    slow    cautiousness,    and    made    us 

know 

That  there  is  no  tomorrow  anywhere  — 
That  those  who  care 
Should  not  take  chances  so. 
And  so  we  married  and  you  went  away 
To  fight.     And  I  am  glad  we  didn't  wait. 
How  queer  it  is  to  think  it  should  be  hate 
And  bitterness,  that  gave  the  shove 
That  pushed  us  into  love. 


A  WAR  WEDDING 

My  life  is  made  of  five  long  nights 

And  five  swift  days,  like  birds  whose  flights 

Have  taken  them  to  where  the  earth 
Below  them,  is  a  small,  strange  thing 
Of  very  little  worth. 

My  life  is  made  of  five  bright  days 

And  five  kind  nights.     I  heard  you  praise 

My  beauty,  in  your  faint,  hushed  tone 
That  no  one  else  has  ever  heard. 
And  this  is  all  I  own. 

Five  nights  and  five  strange  days,  and  then 
You  died  to  save  your  fellow-men. 

I  never  lived  until  I  saw 

Within  your  eyes  that  thirst  and  awe. 

And  I  shall  never  live  again. 
[32] 


SPRING  SOWS  HER  SEEDS 

Why  are  you  doing  it  this  year,  Spring  ? 
Why  do  you  do  this  useless  thing  ? 

Do  you  not  know  there  are  no  men  now  ? 
Why  do  you  put  on  an  apple  bough 
Buds,  and  in  a  girl's  heart,  thronging 
Strange  emotions :  fear,  and  longing, 

Eager  flight,  and  shy  pursuing, 
Noble  thoughts  for  her  undoing; 

Wondering,  accepting,  straining, 
Wistful  seizing,  and  refraining; 

Stern  denying,  answering? 
—  Why  do  you  toil  so  drolly,  Spring? 
[331 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

Why  do  you  scheme  and  urge  and  plan 
To  make  a  girl's  heart  ripe  for  a  man, 

While  the  men  are  herded  together  where 
Death  is  the  woman  with  whom  they  pair  ? 

Back  fall  my  words  to  my  listening  ear. 
Spring  is  deaf,  and  she  cannot  hear. 

Spring  is  blind,  and  she  cannot  see. 
She  does  not  know  what  war  may  be. 

Spring  goes  by,  with  her  age-old  sowing 
Of   seeds    in    each   girl's    heart;     kind,    un 
knowing. 

And,  too,  in  my  heart,  (Spring,  oh,  heed !) 
Now  in  my  own  has  fallen  a  seed. 

(Spring,  give  over !)  I  cringe,  afraid. 
(Though  I  suffer,  harm  no  other  maid !) 

[34] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

I  hide  my  eyes,  a  budding  tree 
Is  so  terrible  to  see. 

I  stop  my  ears,  a  bird  song  clear 
Is  a  dreadful  thing  to  hear. 

Seeds  in  each  girl's  heart  she  goes  throwing. 
Oh,  the  crop  of  pain  that  is  growing! 


[351 


SMITH,    OF    THE    THIRD    OREGON, 
DIES 

"Autumn  in  Oregon  is  wet  as  Spring, 
And  green,  with  little  singings  in  the  grass, 

And  pheasants  flying, 
Gold,  green  and  red, 
Great,  narrow,  lovely  things, 
As  if  an  orchid  had  snatched   wings. 
There  are  strange  birds  like  blots  against  a  sky 

Where  a  sun  is  dying. 

Beyond  the  river  where  the  hills  are  blurred 
A  cloud,  like  the  one  word 
Of  the  too-silent  sky,  stirs,  and  there  stand 

Black  trees  on  either  hand. 

Autumn  in  Oregon  is  wet  and  new 
As  spring, 

[36] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

And  puts  a  fever  like  Spring's,  in  the  cheek 
That  once  has  touched  her  dew  — 
And  it  puts  longing  too 
In  eyes  that  once  have  seen 
Her  season-flouting  green, 

And  ears  that  listened  to  her  strange  birds 
speak. 

"Autumn  in  Oregon  —  I'll  never  see 
Those  hills  again,  a  blur  of  blue  and  rain 
Across  the  old  Willamette.     I'll  not  stir 
A  pheasant  as  I  walk,  and  hear  it  whirr 
Above    my    head,   an    indolent,   trusting 

thing. 

When  all  this  silly  dream  is  finished  here, 
The   fellows  will  go  home,  to  where  there 

fall 

Rose-petals  over  every  street,  and  all 
The  year  is  like  a  friendly  festival. 

[371 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

But  I  shall  never  watch  those  hedges  drip 
Color,  nor  see  the  tall  spar  of  a  ship 
In  our  old  harbor. — They  say  that  I  am 

dying, 

Perhaps  that's  why  it  all  comes  back  again ; 
Autumn  in  Oregon,  and  pheasants  flying  —  " 


38] 


THE  MOVIES  IN  FRANCE 

You  give  me  home :  the  pepper  trees 
Shaking  a  little  in  the  breeze, 
And  rows  of  swaying  palms  —  I  close 
My  eyes  before  I  look  at  those, 
Like  praying  before  food.     The  high 
Great  palms  like  swords  against  the  sky, 
The  drooping  ones  that  curve  and  bend, 
Are  each  to  homesick  eyes,  a  friend. 
The  great  gray  hills  of  home  I  see 
Before  me  lie  alluringly, 
And  sunny  towns,  like  those  I  know. 
Familiar  buildings,  row  on  row, 
A  house  in  shining  cool  concrete 
Like  one  that  stands  across  the  street 
From  ours,  at  home !    The  acacia  stirred 
The  old  way  then.     My  eyes  are  blurred, 
[39] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

The  tale  ?     I  do  not  care  or  know 
What  girl  and  lover  come  and  go 
Beneath  those  trees,  upon  those  hills 
What  kiss  enthralls,  or  murder  thrills 
The  rest  to  grieving  or  delight 
—  For  I  am  home,  am  home  to-night ! 


YOUNG  DEATH 

Men  always  said  that  Death  was  old, 
A  slow,  bent  man  with  wrinkled  hand 

Who  with  a  shining  sickle,  stern  and  cold 
Went  reaping  through  the  land. 

But  now  we  have  learned  bitterly 

They  only  spoke  with  ignorant  tongue. 

This  year  has  touched  our  eyes  and  now  we 

see 
That  Death  is  fair  and  young. 

With  other  drilling  lads  he  stands 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  in  the  street, 

As  stern  his  mouth  as  theirs,  as  quick  his 

hands, 
As  eager  his  young  feet. 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

Above  their  heads  there  hang  the  prayers 
Of  mothers.     Boyish  hearts  beat  bold. 

Ah,    hardly    can    we    tell    his    face    from 

theirs.  .  .  . 
Would  God  that  Death  were  old! 


[42 


SCHOOLMATES 

He  came  a  thousand  miles  to  spend  an  hour 

With  me  before  his  unit  went  to  France. 

I  saw  that  he  was  changed  in  that  first 
glance. 

This  boy  whom  I  had  known  at  college 
had 

A  different  look  —  not  sad, 

But  thoughtful.  There  was  not  the  old- 
time  fear 

Of  folks,  but  he  was  shyer,  even  so, 

Than  I  remembered  him  a  year  ago. 

His  eyes  were  very  clear 

I  think  from  being 

The  long  days  in  the  open; 

From  early  sleep,  perhaps  from  early  rising, 
[43] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

And  then  from  seeing 
That  young  recruit  so  near, 
The  gay  lad,  Death,  who  marches  with  the 
men. 

"I'm   very   glad    you   came,"   I    said,   and 

then 
Asked   after  the  old  crowd.     "A  score  or 

more 

Are  killed.     Dick's  in  the  aviation  corps. 
And  Roger's  flying.     Freckles  had  flat  feet 
And    Bud    was   under  weight."     It  was   a 

treat 

To  hear  the  way  he  cussed  out  every  one. 
"  I  haven't  heard  from  Tom  for  everso. 
And  Tuttle  married  that  Miss  Marsh,  you 

know." 

And  then  he  told  me  of  their  food,  a  jest 

About  a  sergeant  —  and  that  he  liked  best 

[44] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

Of  all,   the  feeling  that  one   was   part,    at 

last, 
After  one's  puny  life,  of  something  vast. 

But  when  the  hour  was  up,  we  said  good-by 

And  shook  hands,  friendlywise,  and  then  he 
stooped 

And  kissed  me  once,  as  very  hungry  men 

Can  seize  at  food,  and  then  he  crushed  his 
small 

Cap  in  his  hands,  and,  head  down,  blind, 
pellmell 

Groped  for  the  open  door  and  somehow 
went. 

Now  Spring  is  here,  and  streams  and  leaf- 
buds  swell 

...  I  never  knew  before  what  April  meant. 


[451 


THE  DEAD  SON 

In  an  old  country, 

Far  and  far  away, 
A  woman  went  a-weeping 

On  a  fresh  Spring  day. 

A  woman  went  a-weeping, 
For  she  heard  birds  singing, 

And  under  the  hill 

There  was  new  grass  springing, 

"He  loved  the  new  grass, 
And  all  the  birds,"  she  said; 

"He  loved  the  sparrows, 
And  threw  them  bread." 
[46] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

(Spring  in  the  bush  and  tree, 

In  her  heart  pain), 
She  wept  for  her  young  lad 
By  bloody  hands  slain. 

She  wept  for  her  son 

Who  had  harmed  no  man, 

Who  must  die  for  the  dark  world, 
Fulfilling  an  old  plan. 

She  was  but  a  woman, 
And  what  could  she  know 

Of  God's  wise  weavings  ? 

"That  he  should  have  to  go ! 

"My  lad,  whom  I  needed, 

Whom  I  love,  night  and  day!" 

She  said.     And  the  birds  sang 
And  all  the  world  was  gay. 

[47] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

To  know  that  he  waited 

In  God's  own  town 
Was  little  comfort  to  her. 

Slowly  down 

The  road  to  the  village, 

With  her  sobs  to  smother, 
All  on  a  Spring  day 

Went  Mary,  His  mother. 

***** 
Now  o'er  a  dark  world 

War  holds  sway, 
And  there  is  sound  of  sobbing, 

This  fresh  Spring  day. 

To  all  weeping  mothers 

She  bends  low; 
She  stretches  out  her  hands  to  them, 

And  says,  "I  know." 
[48] 


SOUNDS 

When  Ypres  burned,  I  watched  the  cloud 
That  glowed  above,  and  hung, 

Pierced  from  the  flaming  towns  below 
By  hungry  tongue. 

There  must  have  been  —  I  have  forgot  — 
The  booming  sound  of  war  — 

I  never  knew  a  nightingale 
Could  sing  so  clear  before. 


[491 


"HIGHLANDERS,   FIX  BAYONETS" 

His  mother  never  liked  that  record  played. 
He  liked  it,  Don,  he  always  seemed  to  be 
Putting  that  record  on,  and  listening 
As  if  there  were  some  one  whispering  at  his 

shoulder, 

Standing  there,  slyly  whispering,  in  his  ear 
While    the    record    whirred    and    the    song 

filled  all  the  room. 
And  after  the  sound  ceased,  he  still  would 

stand, 

The  sunlight  on  his  yellow  hair,  and  dream 
As  lads  do;    and  then  set  the  needle  and 
Hear    the    whole    record    thunder    through 

once  more. 

It  was  a  gallant-sounding  thing,  that  one, 
[50] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

And  though  I  am  an  old  man  and  should 

be 

Leaving  such  things  to  my  grandchildren  now, 
I  liked  the  manly  sound  of  it  myself. 


"Listen,    grandfather/'    he   would   say,    his 

voice 
Was  changing  that  last  summer.     We  would 

wait. 
A  whirring  sound  came  first;    and  then  the 

sharp 
Command    rang    out,    in    a    clear,    rousing 

tone 

Startling,  as  if  upon  a  battlefield 
A  harsh  commander  gave  his  men  the  word. 
"Highlanders,   fix   bayonets!"  —  And   then 

a  hush, 
And  after  that  the  song: 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

A    loud,    full-throated,    wondrous    fighting- 
song, 

Line  after  line  of  hurrying  words  to  put 
New  fury  into  tired  fighting-men. 

"Terror  of  death  in  that  blinding  run  — " 

Yes,  but  if  there  was  blood,  too,  in  the  song, 
And  lust  of  shedding  it,  why,  that's  what 

war  is ; 
It  can't  be  helped.     I  always  told  her  that. 

"Look  to  the  shields  of  the  conquering  foe, 
Crouching  again  for  another  blow ! 
But  see  the  rush  of  a  hundred  clans ! 
Fight  as  you  did  at  Preston  Pans  — 
Highlanders,  fix  bayonets  ! " 

I  could  see 
The  thrill  go  running  through  Don  at  the 

words. 
He  always  seemed  to  like  that  record  played. 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

She  didn't,  though,  but  womenfolk  are  queer. 
She    shuddered    when    the    thirsty    words 

sprang  out. 

She  seemed  to  see  the  battlefield,  the  men 
Running  to  thrust  their  bayonets  through 

the  bodies 

Of  other  laughing,  swaying,  shouting  men, 
She  told  me.     They've  too  much  imagination, 
Women. 

She'd  watch  that  bright-haired  laddie 

stand, 

A  sort  of  premonition  in  her  eyes, 
A  fear,  the  kind  of  fear  that  Mary  might 
Have  had,  once,  watching  the  young  Christ 

at  play. 

They  are  a  strange  race,  mothers,  so  unlike 
The  rest  of  all  us  common  folks  that  we 
Can  only  stand  aside  and  wonder  at  them. 

[531 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

She  used  to  ask  the  boy  for  other  songs 
Half  guessing  at  the  names,  not  really  caring 
What  record  was  put  on,  if  only  that  one 
Would  be  forgotten  for  a  little  while. 


If  she  were  ever  in  the  other  room 

And  heard  the  strident  bars  of  it  beginning, 

That  curious  look  would  come  into  her 
face; 

Her  hands  would  fumble  at  the  kitchen 
work; 

And,  if  she  had  been  speaking  to  a  neigh 
bor, 

Her  words  would  slacken  and  repeat  them 
selves, 

Until  the  record  stopped,  and  she  was  freed. 

And  when  the  stern  command  rang  out, 
each  time 

[541 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

She  cringed,  as  if  some  general  had  spoken 
Aloud    there   in   her   well-kept   house,    and 

brought 
His  war  into  her  quiet,  sunny  kitchen. 


But  when  war  really  broke,   and  he  came 

asking, 
With   all   his  bright  youth   burning  in   his 

eyes 
To  a  flame  that  made  her  own  eyes  blind 

to  see, 
Proud  through  her  frightened  tears,  she  was 

the  first 

Of  all  the  stricken  mothers  in  our  town 
To   say,   "Yes,   go,   my   boy,   and   God    go 

too, 
And   keep   you   brave  and   trusty   at  your 

post, 

[551 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

And  keep  you  safe  for  me  to  hold  again 
When  we  have  done  our  duty,  and  have 

brought 
Peace  back  to  this  poor  world."    And  till 

he  went 

She  never  faltered,  but  her  head  was  high, 
Her  hands  were  busy   for   him.     When   he 

said 
"Good-by"    the    last    day,    at    our     little 

station, 
She  laughed  out  as  she  kissed  him,  smiling 

still 
Until  his  train  was  hidden  by  the  bend. 


She   kept  her  courage  through  the   heavy 

months ; 

And  when  no  letters  came,  she  was  the  one 
To  find  new  reasons  for  each  fresh  delay. 
[56] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

She   kept   her   courage   when    the   message 

came, 
The   wire  from  Washington,    that  he  was 

killed. 
And  when  we    saw   his    full    name    in  the 

long 

Pitiful  roll  of  honor  of  the  dead, 
—  I    mind    his    name   came   halfway    down 

the  list, 

It  was  between  a  Shehan  and  a  Shultz, 
With  "Killed  in  Action"  written  over  all, 
"He  did  his  duty  to  the  end,"  she  said, 
"There  is  no  prouder   death   than   this   of 

his ; 
He  died   to  make  the   countries    all   more 

safe 
For  women  and  children,   like  the   lad   he 

was, 
Thoughtful  of  others  weaker  than  himself." 

[571 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

And  that  was  all  she  said,  but  afterward, 
With    frightened    sobbing    catching    at    her 

breath, 
She  broke  the  shining  record  into  bits. 

And  I  have  never  heard  it  played  again. 
But  sometimes,  when  we've  music  of  an 

evening 

I  vaguely  wish,  among  the  softer  strains 
Of  this  one's  waltz,  or  that  one's  minuet 
That  I  could  hear  once  more  the  thundering 

swell, 
The    strong,    harsh,    sudden   vigor   of    that 

song. 

There  was   something  in  its   swing  to  stir 

men's  blood. 
I  liked  the  manly  sound  of  it  myself. 


"LET'S  PRETEND" 

I  name  my  brothers  in  a  prayer, 

Who  are  upon  the  sea, 
Lynn  with  brown  and  tumbled  hair 

Lloyd  and  Deak,  the  three. 
O  the  days  we  whittled  boats 

And  sailed  them  on  the  sea ! 

The  sea  was  running  past  our  door, 

A  mountain  brook  and  clear, 
And  little  bays  we  scooped  and  shaped 

To  keep  our  fleets  from  fear. 
Each  bay  we  named;  each  ship  we  named, 

And  launched  it  with  a  cheer. 

O  little  whittled  boats  that  went 
So  slowly  round  the  bend ! 

[591 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

O  happy  days  of  make-believe ! 

—  When  will  this  anguish  end  ? 
Tears  in  my  eyes?     I  am  not  now 

So  good  at  "Let's  Pretend." 


[60] 


FOR  A  YOUNG   SOLDIER 

He  laughed  and  died; 

And  something  died  to  me 
In  greening  countryside, 

In  grass  and  bud  and  tree. 
Color  died  from  the  world, 

And  all  the  sky  was  dim; 
And  something  in  each  soul 

I  meet,  died,  too,  with  him. 


[61] 


IN  A  MIRROR 

My  eyes  are  very  blue  tonight 
And  very  big  with  questioning; 
For  love  has  come  to  me,  that  bright 
And  unapproachable  strange  thing 
That  touches  unsuspecting  men 
And  heedless  maids  :   and  not  again 
Shall  the  old  childish  laughter  go 
Leaping  from  mouth  to  eyes  and  sit 
There  like  a  child  that  mischievous 
Climbs  triumphing  to  a  perch  and  will 
Not  be  dislodged,  though  hard  one  tries, 

No  laughter  now  is  in  my  eyes. 
My  mouth  has  other  things  to  know 
162] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

Than  childish  games,  and  secret  places 
Where  the  first,  long,  wood  violets  grow. 
My  face  is  like  all  women's  faces 
Not  like  a  girl's  face  any  more  : 
There  are  more  shadows  in  it,  and 
It  is  soft,  vague,  like  a  new  land 
With  rain  mists  over,  the  outline 
Not  sharp,  as  if  the  day  were  fine. 

To  other  maids,  in  other  days 

Love  came  not  in  so  strange  a  guise, 

So  sudden  and  so  perilous ; 

For  in  the  moment  that  we  know 

The  harbor  of  each  other's  eyes 

War  calls,  and  you  must  go,  must  go : 

And  after,  I  know  well,  strange  new 

Fears,  wishes,  hopes  will  hurry  through 

My  thinking  while  I  wait  for  you. 

I  had  not  dreamed  it  would  be  so 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

That  love  would  come,  but  still,  today, 
Like  one  who  hardly  understands, 
I  welcome,  in  the  same  warm  way, 
This  love,  that  holds  death  in  its  hands. 

My  eyes  are  very  blue  tonight 
And  very  big  with  questioning; 
For  love  has  come  to  me,  that  bright 
And  unapproachable  strange  thing. 


[64] 


PURGED  BY  WAR 

We  have  put  by  our  littleness : 
Envy  and  malice  form  no  more 

The  greater  part  of  all  that  mass 
That  our  hearts  have  in  store. 

The  spiteful  whisperings  fall  and  cease; 

Our  petty  quarrels  are  dropped  and  lost, 
We  have  put  by  our  littleness, 

—  But  oh,  at  what  a  cost ! 


[65] 


ON  A  TROOP  TRAIN 

In    through    the   train   window   comes    the 

scent  of  sagebrush; 

And  I  remember  riding  out  with  you  — 
Sagebrush,  sagebrush,  violet  and  purple, 
Gray   under  noon  sun,  and  silver  under 
dew. 


Riding  out  together  down  the  gold  arroyo, 
Riding    to   the   rim-rock,   climbing   up    a 

trail, 
Riding  when  the  sunset  is  pricking  out  the 

river ; 

Far    from   ranch  or  bunk-house,   or   any 
friendly  hail. 

[66] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

Have  you  forgotten  all  our  rides  together, 
Creaking    leather,    clinking    spurs,    range 

sky  blue, 
Startled    rabbits    flashing    across    the    trail 

before  us  — 

Would   sudden   scent  of  sagebrush   mean 
anything  to  you? 


THE  GREAT  WAR 

Youth,  crucified  to  save  the  world, 
Hangs  on  the  cross,  and  to  the  sky 

Utters,  while  thunderbolts  are  hurled, 
A  fearful  cry. 

Who  has  betrayed  him  ?    Each  one  asks, 
Low,  "Is  it  I?" 


[68] 


FIRE  OF  THE  SUN 

Passionate  children  of  the  sun  — 
You  are  one  and  I  am  one. 
A  piece  of  his  fire  burns  still  in  you; 
And  in  me,  too. 


Lower  your  lids  and  veil  your  eyes. 
Let  us  pretend  that  we  are  wise, 
That  we  are  very  wise,  and  that  you 
Can  smother  that  fire,  and  that  I  can,  too. 

Let  us  forget  that  we  are  young, 
And  have  wanting  in  us.     Let  us  go 
Walking  cautiously  and  slow 
All  these  folk  among. 

[69] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

(Fire  of  the  sun,  smother,  smoulder!) 
Let  us  pretend  that  we  are  older; 
And  that  we  are  calm,  and  do  not  know. 
(Fire  of  the  sun,  burn  low !) 

Let  us  laugh  and  let  us  sing, 
That  will  be  a  pleasant  thing. 

Let  us  look  at  life,  and  weigh, 
And  scrutinize  it  well,  and  say, 
"We  think  we  will  not  buy  today." 
***** 

But  war,  war,  war  !  — 

Let  us  flame  now  before 

It  quenches  us.     Let  us  flame  high 

Ere  it  is  on  us ;    you  and  I ! 


701 


IF  HE  CAME  NOW 

If  he  came  now ! 

My  heart  would  be  like  a  once  quiet  street, 
Hung  with  gay  lanterns  on  a  fete  night,  wild 
With  singing !     And  my  heart  would  be  a 

child 

Sleepily  waking  to  a  kiss,  then,  flinging 
Sleep  from  it,  springing 
With  all  too  ready  feet, 
Out  of  the  night,  into  the  world  again 
And  finding  that  its  toys  were  all  once  more 
There  where  it  left   them,   waiting  on   the 

floor 
To  be  played  with  again.     My  heart  would 

be 
An  opened  book  filled  full  with  witchery, 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

Filled,  too,  with  pain, 

An  opened  book  that  had  been  left  too  long 
Upon  a  dusty  shelf.     It  would  be  a  song 
In  a  young  mouth.     And  it  would  be  buds, 

too, 
Opening  under  the  moon,  and  shivering  at 

the  dew, 

But  liking  it.     And  it  would  be  a  flame, 
Red  in  the  night.     I  used  to  be  glad  when 

he  came, 

But  not  so  very  glad  —  because  I  thought 
That  I  would  always  have  him.  .  .  .     Then 

war  caught 

Him  from  me  suddenly,  and  bore  him  out 
To    be    where    danger    is ;     and    killed    my 

doubt, 

My  hesitation  and  half  fears.     Ah,  how 
I  would  run  to  welcome  him,  if  he  came 


now! 


721 


THE   CHINQUAPIN  TRAIL 

Thimbleberry,    salmonberry,    mountain   ash 

and  chinquapin, 

Hard-hack,  black  cap,  elderberry  blue, 
Blackberry,      huckleberry,      rhododendron, 

sword  fern, 

Wooly  manzanita  —  To  be  riding  through 
The  heavy  brush  about  the  trail,  at  dusk 

once  more ! 
When  all  the  gold  is  spilling  on  the  sky's 

wide  floor ! 

Indian  plum  and  squaw  grass,  paint  brush 

and  mountain  balm, 

Dwarf  maple,  buck  brush,  once  so  com 
monplace  ! 

Spiraea  and  syringa,  chaparral  and  hazel, 

[73] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

Maple  leaves  that  tremble,  and  the  great 

black  trace 

Of  a  fir  across  the  sky,  and,  quick  as  fear 
Drops  the  dark  upon  the  trail.  ..."  And 
now  Pm  here  — 

Far   from   whisk   of   chipmunk   or   rush   of 

furry  gray-squirrel, 
Chinquapin  and  squaw  grass  are  a  half 

a  world  away ! 
The   sun   goes   down   on   No   Man's   Land, 

and  dusk  is  on  the  trenches, 
And  there's  never  a  cow  pony,  at  the  end 

of  day, 
To   go    with    down    the    canon,    with    the 

mountain  shrubs  around  me. 
But  some  day  I'll  go  back  and    ride,  and 

greet  them  all : 
Chinquapin  and  squaw  grass  and  grape  and 

chaparral ! 

[741 


ON  AN  OLD    BATTLEFIELD 

Two  foes  who  slew 

Each  other,  lay 

In  slow  decay; 

From  them  there  grew 

This  poppy  which  I  pluck  today. 

Here  where  I  keep  a  rendezvous 

With  you 

The  hatred  of  two  men 

Leads  round  to  love  again. 

All  hate 

To  love  leads,  soon  or  late. 


1751 


THE  RECRUITING  STATION  AT  THE 
NEW  YORK  PUBLIC  LIBRARY 

The  two  white  lions  of  the  library 

Who   guard   by   night   and   day  the   doors 

that  lead 
Into    the    house    where    beauty    waits    our 

need; 
Who  guard  —  and  know  not  to  what  end, 

for  whom  — 

All  the  world's  wisdom  in  a  narrow  room  — 
The  two  white  lions  of  the  library 
Lookout  and  wonder  at  the  thing  they  see; 
They  who  have  known  but  students,  shabby, 

lone; 

They  who  have  known 
But  poets,  eager,  tense,  with  a  rapt  air 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

Looking  beyond  the  gray  crowds,  and  the 

white 

Great  doors,  to  a  far  perfect  goal  somewhere ; 
Women,  alight 

With  thanks,  for  the  holiday  from  little  cares 
That  in  this  house  is  theirs  : 
And  old,  calm  men,  who  find  no  better  thing 
In  life,  than  a  dead  book's  companioning 
When  all  else  fails ; 

And  children,  coming  to  read  fairy-tales; 
And  all  the  weary  ones  who  wish  to  spend 
A  piece  of  life  for  dreams.  ...     It  is  at  an 

end, 
That    tranquil    time.     And    now,    all    the 

strange  day, 
From  those  high  pedestals  where  they  must 

stay, 

The  two  white  lions  of  the  library 
Look  out  in  wonder  at  the  thing  they  see. 
[77] 


THE  GENEROUS  GIVER 

We   two  —  and   marriage  —  how   absurd   it 

seems ! 

Like  giving  a  child  a  rare  and  costly  vase 
To  keep  among  its  other  toys.  We  two ! 
Marriage  seemed  something  made  for  grave, 

wise  folk; 

Not  for  us  happy  wild  things,  wilful,  gay, 
And  always  on  a  wondrous  holiday. 

We  called  upon  a  friend  one  day  last  week ; 
She   was   engaged,    and    showed   us    all   her 

linen ; 
Smooth    household    things,    that    made    us 

slyly  look 
With  deprecating  humor  at  each  other. 

[78] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

We    two  —  and    tablecloths !    They're    not 

for  us ; 
We    are    so    far    from    tablecloths !     What 

have 

We  two  to  do  with  tablecloths,  and  with 
Guest  towels  of  florid,  bulging,  fat  initials  ? 
She  and  her  man  are  serious-minded  folk. 
But  we  are  like  two  children  playing  house 
Who  fill  material  needs  with  make-believe. 
There  are  too  many  magic  things  in  life 
To  give  oneself,  a  voluntary  slave 
To  serve  a  house,  a  table  and  a  chair. 
Houses  are  made  to  use,  to  flout  and  leave 
When  the  road  calls  and  sunsets  are  abroad, 
When  the  sea  calls,  and  rain  is  in  the  wind. 

Our  marriage  is  a  taking  hands  and  running 
Into  the  sunrise  —  not  a  being  ruled 
By  a  kind  house  with  disapproving  shutters. 
[79] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

But  even  so,  how  strange  to  think  of  being 
Always  together,  with  no  wagging  tongues ; 
But  with  the  world  permitting  us  to  kiss  ! 
This  mythical  and  dread  and  sacred  room 
Called    marriage,    where    these    grown-ups 

enter  in, 

Today  they  let  us,  unreproved,  explore, 
Two  laughing  children,  curious,  wondering. 

Though  all  our  work  was  toward  it,  all  our 

dreams, 
We    two  —  and    marriage  —  how   unreal    it 

seems ! 

To  war,  who,  ere  its  time,  has  given  youth 
Gifts,  generously,  prematurely  kind, 
Not  ordering  impatient  youth  to  wait  — 
Who,  with  those  bloody  hands  that  deal  out 

death, 

Deals  love  as  well,  we  give  our  happy  thanks. 
[8ol 


THE  GAY  LAD  DEATH 

The  gay  lad  Death 
Takes  stride  for  stride 

With  the  marching  men 
He  walks  beside. 

As  their  shoulders  touch, 
In  the  bitter  weather 

Death  and  our  own  lads 
March  together. 

The  gay  lad  Death  — 
He  sings  to  the  men; 

And  each  man's  thoughts 
Turn  back  again 

To  his  own  small  house, 

To  his  own  far  town; 
[8i] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

To  the  girl  he  loves 
In  her  Sunday  gown. 

The  words  they  said 

That  hurt  us  sore 
In  the  years  of  peace, 

They  are  sorry  for. 

The  gay  lad  sings. 

He  sang  on  the  day, 
(O  the  memories !) 

When  they  went  away. 

It  was  he  when  they  left, 
(O  the  marching  feet !) 

Who  put  in  their  kiss 
So  much  of  sweet. 

The  gay  lad  Death 
Is  very  kind : 
[82] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

He  makes  pictures 
In  their  mind 


On  the  elm  by  the  porch 
And  the  rug  by  the  chair, 

Of  the  shine  of  the  lamplight 
In  our  hair. 


The  gay  lad  Death, 

Of  this,  of  this, 
He  makes  his  song, 

And  of  that  last  kiss. 


We  women  have  much 
To  thank  him  for. 

He  sings  to  the  men 
As  they  march  to  war 

[83] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

With  a  lad's  voice  sweet 

And  tremulous. 
It  is  he  who  makes  them 

Think  of  us. 


RICHARD  LOVELACE  AND  RICHARD 
SMITH 

Lucasta,  on  the  day  when  he  left  you,  to  go 

to  the  wars, 

Your  sweetheart,  Richard  Lovelace, 
Did   your   heart   beat   chokingly,   when   he 

whispered  those  words  to  you  ? 
Were  the  quick  tears  tangling  your  lashes, 
And  blinding  your  terror-stricken  eyes,  when 

he  said, 

"  Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind, 
To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

"  True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 
The  first  foe  in  the  field ; 

[85] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 
A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

"  Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  Dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  Honor  more." 


Yesterday,  when  Dick  Smith,  who  grew  up 

next  door  to  me,  went  to  the  front, 
He    did    not    bend    down    from    a   jeweled 

saddle 

To  take  the  last  kiss; 
He  leaned  out  from  a  window  in  the  day 

coach, 
Crowding    past    pushing    heads    and    khaki 

shoulders, 
And  kissed  me, 
And,    over    the    noise    of    frantic    farewells 

trampling  each  other,  he  shouted : 
[86] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

"So  long,  kiddie!     Be  good  to  yourself! 
I  won't  come  back 
Till  we've  hanged  the  kaiser 
To  one  of  his  own  linden  trees !" 

He  didn't  say  it  as  poetically  as  your  Richard 

did, 
But  he  meant  exactly  the  same  thing. 


[87] 


A  GIRLS'  WAR  SEWING  CLASS 

My  three  brothers  have  taken  train 
To  make  the  mad  world  safe  again. 

My  three  brothers  have  kissed  our  mother 
(A  son  is  more  to  lose  than  a  brother) 

And    given    their    sweethearts    one    bright 

glance 
And  gone  to  France,  and  gone  to  France; 

And  with  them  one  who,  I  knew  well, 
Loved  me,  but  was  too  shy  to  tell. 

Now  there  is  war  like  a  shroud  of  black 
Over  the  world.     And  Spring  comes  back, 
[88] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

And  makes  our  hearts  beat  uselessly, 
Mine  and  theirs  who  sew  with  me. 

What  use  now  to  be  young  and  fair  — 
And  new  grass  under  the  plum  trees  there? 

What  use  now  our  round  breasts  swelling  ? 
There  are  no  love  words  for  telling, 

Only  words  for  speaking  of  battles. 

A  gust  comes  swift  and  the  window  rattles 

And  each  girl  starts,  as  she  heard  the  sound 
Of  a  bullet  pushing  a  man  to  the  ground. 

What  use  now  at  dusk  to  be  waiting  ? 
There  are  no  youths  for  our  mating. 

What  use  crocuses  in  the  meadow  ? 
We  walk  under  the  shroud's  black  shadow. 
[89] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

In  our  street  the  spring  wind  blowing, 
Hurt  at  our  silence,  all  unknowing, 

Wonders  why  we  do  not  answer. 
April  sways  to  us,  the  dancer, 

Never  guessing  why  no  more 

We  listen  for  her  foot  on  the  floor. 

Where  girls'  voices  used  to  mingle 
In  a  light  and  merry  jingle 

With  a  youth's  hoarse  grumbling  tone, 
In  our  town  one  hears  alone, 

All  its  length  from  street  to  street, 
Only  women's  voices  sweet. 

What  use  now  to  be  wild  and  eager? 
Pain  is  common,  cheer  is  meager; 
[90] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

Heartbreak  is  no  luxury, 

Rich  and  poor  its  look  may  see. 

What  use  now  for  Spring  to  come  peering 
In  our  window,  calling,  jeering  ? 

We  sit  and  sew,  in  a  girl's  soft  din, 
Things  for  our  loves  to  lie  wounded  in. 

We  cut  and  shape  and  sew  and  baste 
Smiling,  with  no  courage  to  waste, 

And  over  the  hills  new  grass  comes  fine 
As  a  baby's  hair  in  the  soft  sunshine. 

On  a  bough  by  the  window  buds  grow  fat, 
It  breaks  our  hearts  to  look  at  that. 

The  window  wears  a  long  black  shawl, 
But  we  have  never  had  love  at  all. 
[91] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

There  is  woe  in  the  eyes  of  the  soldier's 

bride, 
But  she  had  a  man  to  lie  beside 

For  five  sweet  nights,  and  she  has  a  ring 
And  a  shaken  kiss  for  remembering. 

But  we  at  the  threshold  cannot  see, 

We  only  wonder  what  Life  may  be, 

/ 

We  who  have  not  yet  known  the  way 
Love  and  April  burn  and  sway 

And  lift  their  victims  then  once  more 
Into  life  —  we  have  no  store 

Of  memories  to  torture  and 

Heal  with  the  same  careless  hand. 

Only  little  memories  of 
The  awkward  overtures  of  love, 
[92] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

The  first  strange  word,  and   wistful   glance 
That  make  a  girl's  heart  cower  and  dance. 

Now,  we  must  forget  until 

The  war  is  done  and  the  world  is  still. 

It  is  we  who  keep  the  ceaseless  round ; 
For  Life  is  a  clock  that  must  be  wound. 

We  could  bear  each  heavy  thing, 
If  there  were  no  Spring,  no  Spring ! 

We  could  ply  our  needle  and  thread 
Calmly,  if  each  bird  were  dead, 

But  Spring's  cruelty  heaps  the  measure, 
And  we  must  watch  the  young  sun's  pleas 
ure 

In  the  hungry  earth.     I  think 
Violets  are  on  the  brink 
193] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 
Of  the  churchyard  hill.     I  see 
One  red  flower  on  an  apple  tree. 

And  the  wind  comes  shyly,  sweet 
Home,  still  laughing,  to  our  street. 

While  we  sit  and  sew,  through  chatter  and 

din, 
Things  for  our  loves  to  be  dying  in. 


[94] 


TENEMENT  WINDOWS 

The  hawker  brings  geraniums, 

And  stands  beneath  the  windows; 
High  up  in  the  tenements  they  hear  his  cry, 
"Geraniums,  geraniums! 
Red  and  white  geraniums ! 
Pink  and  fresh  geraniums!" 
They  straggle  down  to  buy. 

The  hawker  brings  geraniums : 
He  pulls  his  cart  up  closer; 
The  windows   in   the  dull   slum   street    are 
crowded,  black. 

"Geraniums,  geraniums! 
Red  and  white  geraniums ! 
The  hawker  brings  geraniums," 
And  spring's  come  back. 

[95] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

The  hawker  brings  geraniums. 

He's  brought  them  many  Aprils, 
But  never  have  they  blossomed  where  such 
strange  companions  are : 
Geraniums,  geraniums, 
They'll  grace  the  unwashed  windows 
Beside  a  dingy  service  flag  that  has  a  dusty 
star! 


[96] 


THE   WAR  BULLETIN 

Not  ink,  but  blood  —  so  they, 

The  bulletins,  are  made  —  each  word,  each 

line, 

Each  letter  in  the  lists  — .     One  sudden  day 
Last  week,  of  which  I  do  not  like  to  think, 
It  was  your  heart's  blood  made  the  ink. 
Today  —  God  keep  me  silent  —  it  was  mine. 


97] 


THE   BIRDS   BETWEEN  THE 
TRENCHES 

The  birds  between  the  trenches 
Look  down  on  de'ath  and  sing 

As  blithely  as  they  might  have  done 
In  western  fields  in  Spring. 

They  lavish  all  their  treasure, 

Nor  save  a  single  tune. 
They  know  the  ears  that  hear  them 

Will  hear  no  bird  notes  soon  — 


[98] 


A  CALIFORNIAN  IN  FRANCE 

Here  in  the  trench's  damp  and  cold, 
I  think  of  my  own  land's  blue  and  gold. 

Blue,  blue,  April  blue  — 

A  drift  of  white,  and  a  rift  of  blue, 
A  dream  of  white,  and  a  gleam  of  blue, 

Blue,  blue,  blue! 

Gold,  gold,  poppies'   gold, 

A  flare  of  gold,  and  a  glare  of  gold, 
A  hint  of  green,  and  a  glint  of  gold, 

Gold,  gold,  gold! 

When  this  war  is  over,  then 
Poppies  I  shall  tread  again. 
[991 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

See  in  the  old  careless  way 
Blue  of  sky  and  blue  of  bay. 

Only   Death's   threat'ning   hand   can   open 

eyes 
To  beauty  in  familiar  hills  and  skies. 


[ioo] 


A  SONG  OF  SEVERAL  YOUNG  MEN 

"I'm  having  the  time  of  my  life," 
He  writes,  "Don't  worry  for  me." 

For  it  took  danger  and  strife 
To  make  him  free. 

«H 

War  gave  him  the  freedom  and  friends 
That  poverty  cheated  him  of. 

Shells,  do  not  drop  near  his  post! 
Bullets,  fly  safely  above ! 

There's  a  long  line  of  men  for  your  prey; 
There  are  men  who  have  lived  more,  to 

hit. 
He  has  found  his   youth  now.     Shrapnel, 

guns, 

Let  him  enjoy  it  a  bit. 
Hoi] 


RED  SUNDAY 

IN  THE  RUSSIAN  REVOLUTION 

Between  the  singing  multitudes 
The  crimson  coffins  slowly  sway, 

As  through  strange  streets  the  newly  slain 
Take  their  triumphant  way. 

These  scarce-cold  hands  beneath  the  red 
Of  protest  and  of  passion,  now 

Have  been  fulfilling  many  a  dead 
Man's  century-old  vow. 

And  while  the  singing  thousands  throng 
And  watch  the  mighty  dead  go  by, 

Beneath  the  pall  the  silent  mouths 
Join  in  the  joyous  cry. 

[102] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

When  heroes  are  borne  past  our  eyes 
Who  reached  and  righted  twisted  years, 

In  this  their  righteous  victory 
How  is  there  time  for  tears  ? 

The  crimson  coffins  proud  go  by 

With  songs  on  either  hand. 
With  this  red  coin  a  people  buy 

New  life  for  an  old  land. 


103] 


MY  CHUM 

I'm  not  his  sweetheart,  God,   I'm  just  his 

chum, 

We  hadn't  got  as  far  as  loving  yet. 
We're  both  so  young.     If  fighting  had  not 

come 
So  soon.  —  But  then  it  did,  and  now  he's 

there 
In   France.     And   I'm   here   making   you 

this  prayer 

To  put  with  those  his  mother's  sending  you. 
(Perhaps  she  wouldn't  like  it  if  she  knew.) 
Guard  him,  and,  God,  don't  let  him  quite 
forget. 

His  mother  wouldn't  like  it  if  she  knew, 
Or  mine,  if  she  should  ever  chance  to  guess 
[  104] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

I'm  speaking  of  him  every  night  to  you. 
They'd    say    we're    quite    too    young    to 

understand. 
But  that  day,  when  he  went,  he  took  my 

hand 
And  while  they  talked,  he  asked  me  with 

his  eyes. 

I  answered  too.     Perhaps  it  wasn't  wise. 
And   something   made   the   handshake   a 
caress. 

And  still  I  wear  my  hair  down  in  a  braid 
And  study  Algebra.     His  letters  come; 
I  open  each  half  hoping,  half  afraid; 
But  there  is  never  any  reason  why 
The  rest  mayn't  have  them  just  as  soon 

as  I. 

Still,  though  the  family  reads  them,  never 
seeing 

[105] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

Between  the  lines,  I  know!   and  can't  help 

being 

Proud,  proud  !    God,  keep  him  safe  today 
—  My  Chum. 


[106] 


THE  LITTLE  TRAIL  TO  DEATH 

There's  a  trail  up  the  mountain,  there's  a 

trail  to  the  lake; 
There's   a  trail  to  the  deep  woods   I   long 

today  to  take 
Where  the  wind  goes,  and  the  ferns  stand, 

and  the  pine  needles  red 
Make  a  low,  soft  pillow  for  a  man's  tired 

head. 

There's  a  trail  up  the  hillside,  there's  a  trail 

to  the  glade, 
Where  the  trout  swim  slow  in  the  calm,  cool 

shade 
Of  the  still  pool.     And  the  trees   hide,  in 

their  sea-swaying  boughs, 
[107] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

A   bird's   hope,   and   a   bird's   fears,   and   a 
bird's  brown  house. 

There's   a   trail   to   the   lakeside,   there's   a 

trail  to  the  hill    . 
Where  the  moss  holds   the  footprints,   and 

the  high  ferns  are  still, 
Where  the  beech  stands,  and  the  pine  towers, 

and  the  water  maples  take 
The  color  from  the  sunset,  and  where  alders 

shake. 

There's  a  trail  to  the  seaside,  there's  a  trail 

to  the  hill 
There  are  trails  to  the  world's  end  I  long  to 

follow  still. 
— But  here  as  in  a  trench  I  watch;  before 

new  dawns  shall  break, 
It  may  be  it's  the  little  trail  to  death  that 

I  will  take. 

[108] 


WOUNDED  RED   CROSS  NURSE 

Little  white  body  of  mine,  so  broken, 

Little  white  body  that  tried  to  be  brave, 

Lying,  without  any  thought  or  emotion, 
On  a  long  bed  like  a  grave, 

On  a  long  hospital  cot  in  the  stillness; 

Supple  soft  body,  all  bandaged  and  strange, 
How  you  have  run  in  the  sun  on  the  hillside, 

Raced  on  the  range ! 

How  you  have  danced  with  the  leaves  in 

the  forest, 

Where  with  the  other  swift  nymphs  you 
belong ! 

[109] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

Joyous,  wild  body,  I  mourn  for  your  still 
ness  — 
You  that  were  song, 

When  out  of  the  swathings,  grotesque  and 

uncomely, 
I  smile  as  the  men  I  have  nursed  so  long, 

do, 
As  my  drowsy  eyes  gaze  down  the  mounds 

and  the  hillocks 
And  the  folds  in  the  sheets  that  are  you. 

I  am  too  weak  now  to  fear  or  be  grieving; 

That  will  come  later,  and  tears  for  you  then, 
Little  white  body,  who  cannot  believe  yet 

You  will  never  be  dancing  again. 


[no] 


PART  II 

THE  DRUMS  IN  OUR  SQUARE 


THE  DRUMS  IN   OUR  SQUARE 

High  dreams  fill  all  the  dusk-hung  air, 

We  all  are  dreamers  in  our  Square : 

We  put  a  word  upon  a  word, 

Like  children's  blocks  to  make  a  tower, 

To  make  a  tower  where  we  may  stand 

And  snatch  at  heaven  with  our  hand; 

Or  we  put  color  carelessly 

On  color,  and  their  hearts  are  stirred, 

These  careless  others',  for  an  hour. 

We  all  are  dreamers  in  our  Square; 
There  is  no  sound  but  laughter  there. 
We  win  to  gladness,  win  to  mirth, 
We  are  the  glad  ones  of  the  earth, 
Because  the  thing  we  dream,  we  do; 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

All  men  dream  dreams,  our  dreams  are  true : 
For  the  work  we  love  our  hands  are  free. 
We,  too,  create,  and  are  deity. 

But  what  is  this  sound  today  that  comes  ? 
Here  in  our  Square  —  the  Drums,  the  Drums  ? 


t»4l 


LAST  NIGHT 

Last  night  they  all  were  in  our  studio 
Drinking  a  little  from  the  common  cup 
Of  hope,  Bob  said,  he  writes  that  kind  of 

verse, 
The  kind  that's  made  of  words,  the  other 

kind 
Is  made  of  feelings,  with  words  put  up  like 

screens 
To  hide  them  but  to  let  us  know  they're 

there. 

They  drank  a  toast  to  you  and  me,  and  to 
Our    happiness.    They    drank   it    standing, 
and 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

You  made  a  speech,  pride  shining  from  your 

eyes 
And  joy,  because  you'd  made  me  care  for 

you. 

And  I  sat  by,  and  laughed,  and  was  happy 
too. 

"She's  like  a  kitten,  little  and  comforting, 
Contented  playing  with  a  spool  and  string," 
Said  Bobby,  "she's  the  happiest  thing,  I'll 
swear, 

In  all  New  York!"    Bill  said,   "Or  any 
where." 

It  was  so  true  of  me,  I  couldn't  speak. 
They  laughed  to  see  the  red  come  in  my 
cheek. 

[116] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

And  then  the  talk  went  drifting  out  among 
The  floating  flotsam-jetsam  of  the  Square; 
Who'd  fallen  in  love  with  whom,  and  who'd 

been  where; 
And  Torwald's  picture  that  had  just  been 

hurfg, 

And  what  the  publishers  had  wanted  for 
Jem's  book,  —  and  then  they  talked  about 

the  war. 

—  Last  night  they  all  were  in  our  studio 
And  talked  about  the  war  —  how  could  I 

know 
That  ere  another  night,  you'd  have  to  go! 


[1171 


ENLISTED 

Two  weeks  with  you  —  two  crazy  weeks 
Of  joy  at  being  alive,  and  being 
Everything  to  each  other,  freeing 
Each  other  from  the  bonds  that  hold 
The  spirit  in  from  being  bold 
And  ranging  heaven  unafraid. 
For  two  wild,  holy,  reckless  weeks 
We  laughed  together  —  then  war  speaks. 

War  speaks,  and  calls  your  name,  and    you 
Lift  your  head  and  are  listening, 
Loose  my  arms  from  your  neck  that  cling, 
And  with  all  the  ragged  and  reckless  crew 
Of  the  artists  and  poets  and  dreamers  we  knew 
Down  the  long  street  you  are  marching  — 


you ! 


[118 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

And  I  who  have  never  learned  to  see 
Your  coat  and  hat  on  the  old  hall  tree, 
Your  tangling  ties  on  my  dresser  here, 
Your  strange  huge  boots  by  my  little  shoes 
Without  a  shamed  and  proud  confusion. 
I  must  see  these  now,  and  be  stabbed  anew 
By  each  thing  that  ever  was  worn  by  you. 

I  must  hear  the  hurdy  gurdy's  groan 
Outside  of  our  window,  and  stand  alone 
And  listen  to  all  the  tunes  you  know 
Where  I  stood  with  you  a  week  ago. 
And  every  night  again  I  must  face 
The  others  without  you,  chatting  gay 
At  the  artists'  little  eating-place. 
How  can  I  live  these  long  hours  through  ? 
Day  after  endless  aching  day? 

But  oh,  I  am  proud,  am  proud  of  you! 


THE  BROKEN  PROMISE 

You  and  I  touched  each  other's  hands 
And  stood  listening. 
Life  promised  us  so  much, 
Bent  low  and  whispered, 
And  promised  us  so  much. 
Then  war 

Put  his  large,  stubby  hand 
Over  her  mouth 
And  drew  her  head  back 
Before  she  had  quite  finished  promising; 
War  has  forced  her  to  her  knees 
And  her  eyes  have  fear  in  them, 
But  you  and  I  do  not  think  of  her  danger. 
We  only  grieve 

Because  now  she  cannot  give  us 
Those  wonderful  things 
Of  which  she  whispered  in  our  ears. 
[120] 


A  GREENWICH  VILLAGE  TEA  ROOM 

The  dingy  basement  restaurant 
Where  the  artists  used  to  come  — 

The  little  smoky  room 
Where  the  artists  sat 
Blowing  dreams  from  their  cigarettes, 
Shaping  them  with  their  lips 
And  watching  them  rise  and  die  with  equal 
languor  — 

The  little  smoky  room 
That  has  known  tragedies 
In  many  young  men's  eyes, 
Has  seen  births, 
And  deaths  — 

[121] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

The  little  smoky  room 
Is  empty  now  — 

On  a  spring  night, 

War  sauntered  into  it 

Casually, 

And  the  young  men  linked  their  arms  in 

his, 

And  marched  out  through  the  door 
Singing,  and  laughing,  and  jesting  with  their 

new  comrade. 


[122] 


AT  THE  GRAND  CENTRAL  STATION 

I  smiled  as  I  said  good-by  —  you  knew 
As  you  watched  my  face,  it  was  hard  to  do. 

You  helped  me  laugh,  you  helped  me  jest, 
Till  the  big  clock  called,  and  you  went  with 
the  rest. 

Then  I  turned  away,  and  jostled  the  others, 
Sisters  of  soldiers,  sweethearts,  mothers, 

Fathers  of  sailors,  friends  they'd  known. 
And  I  walked  home,  alone,  alone. 

And   the   station  was  empty,   and  all  the 
street. 

[123] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

And  I  passed  the  place  where  we  used  to 
meet. 

And  the  town  was  empty,  and  full  of  gloom ; 
And  the  Square  was  empty  —  and  oh,  our 
room! 


124] 


"ANYTHING  YOU  WANT" 

" — Anything  you  want"  —  those  were  his 

words, 
"Buy   anything    you    want,    dear"  —  and 

that  look, 

The  look  of  some  one's  father,  in  his  eyes, 
The  look  of  giving  playthings  to  a  child  — 
I  cannot  quite  forget  his  words,  his  look. 
"Buy  anything  you  want"  —  his  train  was 

gone 

And  I  left  standing  by  the  station  door, 
Alone  with  the  five  dollars  in  my  hand. 
I,  only,  knew  how  hard  he  must  have 

tried, 

To  save  that  folded  bill,  from  needful  things, 
For  me  to  buy  a  trinket  with.     He  knew 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

So  well,  the  way  I  loved  a  bit  to  spend 
For  foolish  things  I  never  should  have  craved. 
"Buy  anything  you  want"  —  the  train  was 

gone. 
Those  words  —  the  last  he  said  to  me  on 

earth, 
So    like    him    always  —  "Anything    you 

want." 

Today  the  notice  came  that  he  was  dead, 
My  husband-lover.     Dead  —  my  own,  my 

own. 

And  ever  since,  the  traffic  in  the  street 
In  all  its  magic  rhythm  seems  to  taunt 
And  stab  me,  like  a  well-loved  song  repeat 
Those    words.     I    walk    alone,    unheeded, 

home; 
And  dusk  comes  gayly.  —  "Anything  you 


want" — 


[126] 


A  SOLDIER'S  WIFE 

I   looked   out  through   the  window  to    the 

street 
The  lights  made  silver  and  the  rain  made 

black, 

To  see  at  last  if  you  were  coming  back. 
But  there  were  only  other  people  there, 
Not  you,  not  you !  My  eyes  searched 

everywhere, 
But   no  one's   shoulders   had   that    reckless 

swing 

And  no  one's  hat  was  tilted  quite  so  much 
Too    far.     The    dusk    had    laid    its   wistful 

touch 

Upon  each  tree  within  the  little  park. 
It  is  hard  to  be  alone  when  it  grows  dark 
[127] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

On    the    first,    strange,    wild    days    of   any 

Spring. 

Spring  is  a  pitiless  season  —  gay  and  sweet 
But  very  pitiless.  —  I  saw  a  pair 
Of  lovers  walking,  speaking,  unaware 
That  some  one  at  a  window  up  above 
Was  hating  them  because  they  were  in  love. 
And  there  were  soldiers  passing,  proud  to  be 
Soldiers,  and  not  unwilling  we  should  see. 
A   girl    went    rushing    by,    with    something 

warm 
In    her    smiling,    and   with    books    beneath 

her  arm, 
A  group  of  small  boys   loitered  past,  and 

then 

In  eager,  confidential  chat,  two  men ; 
Then  some  one  disappointed  and  alone, 
Whose    business    hadn't    gone    the    way    it 

should. 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

The  secrets  shoulders  tell !  when  if  we  could 
We  would  silence  them  as  firmly  as  we  do 
Our   mouths    and   eyes.      How   wary   mine 

have  grown ! 
Then  came  two  shoppers,  in  their  high  tense 

jargon 

Each  boasting  to  the  other  of  a  bargain ; 
Then  others ;  women,  men,  a  child  or  two ; 
A  poet  with  his  hat  off,  striding  out 
Against  the  world,  his  every  step  a  shout; 
And  people  in  the  distance,  who,  I  knew 
Were  people,  but  who  seemed  like  blurs  of 

blue. 

I  looked  out,  out,  to  where  the  lights  and 

rain 

Were  putting  silver  on  the  street,  and  black, 
To  see  at  last  if  you  were  coming  back 
Who  never  can  come  back  to  me  again. 
K  [129] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

But  as  I  stood  alone,  and  watched  for  you 
With  bitterness  and  pain  —  before  I  knew, 
The  bitterness  and  grieving  all  were  gone. 
The    Spring    wind    touched    me.     I    looked 

down  upon 

The  little  tragedies  of  shoulder,  and 
Slow  feet,  tired  head,  and  languid,  listless 

hand ; 

The  little  comedies  of  bird-like,  fleeting 
Quick    glances,    and    of    glad    eyes    boldly 

meeting. 
You  fought  that  these  young  things  today 

might  sate 
Their  thirst  for   Spring,   might  laugh,   and 

weep  and  mate. 
That  all  might  still  go   on    like    this,   you 

died. 

To  save  their  youth,  your  youth  was  cruci 
fied. 

[130] 


The  Drums  in  Our  Street 

Because  of  this  you  shall  forever  after 

Be  one  with  love  and  youth  and  joy  and 

laughter. 

Because  of  this  you  still  in  all  that  meet 
Shall  smile  and  touch  and  speak  within  this 

street. 

Love  in  my  eyes,  I  looked  again,  and  knew 
In  all  who  pass,  there  is  a  part  of  you. 
And  now  each  night  I  lean  out,  out,  and  see 
Once  more,  my  lover  coming  home  to  me. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 

[131! 


E  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of  a 
few  of  the  Macmillan  books  on  kindred  subjects 


MASEFIELD'S   POEMS   AND    PLAYS   COLLECTED 


The  Poems  and    Plays    of   John    Masefield: 
Volume  I,  Poems;    Volume  II,  Plays 

With  Frontispiece  Portrait  of  Author  in  Photogravure 

Cloth,  izrno 

This  is  what  many  people  have  long  been  desiring  — 
a  collected  edition  of  the  works  of  Masefield,  including 
everything  that  the  distinguished  English  author  has 
published  in  the  field  of  drama  and  verse. 

Here  will  be  found  The  Everlasting  Mercy  and  The 
Widmv  in  the  Bye  Street,  The  Daffodil  Fields  and  other 
of  the  great  contributions  on  which  he  gained  his  first 
popularity,  as  well  as  those  shorter  pieces  which  have 
heretofore  been  published  only  in  limited  editions.  It 
is  now  possible  for  the  Masefield  admirer  to  possess  his 
complete  writings  in  the  two  fields  in  which  he  is  supreme. 

The  volumes  have  been  carefully  made,  and,  purely 
from  the  bookmaking  standpoint,  will  be  a  worth-while 
addition  to  any  library. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

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TAGORE   ILLUSTRATED   BY   INDIAN  ARTISTS 


Gitanjali  and  Fruit  Gathering 

BY  RABINDRANATH  TAGORE 

Edition  de  Luxe.    With  8  illustrations  in  color  and  23 
in  black  and  white  by  Indian  artists 

Decorated  cloth,  i2mo 

Here  are  presented  two  of  Mr.  Tagore's  most  popular 
books,  Gitanjali,  the  religious  poems  for  which  he  re 
ceived  the  Nobel  prize  in  literature,  and  Fruit  Gathering, 
its  sequel.  The  combination  of  the  two  in  one  volume 
is  very  appropriate  and  the  illustrations  which  have 
been  prepared  not  only  beautify,  but  give  new  signifi 
cance  to  many  of  the  lines. 

No  lover  of  Tagore  will  feel  that  his  library  is  com 
plete  without  this  attractive  work. 

"Mr.  Tagore's  translations  are  of  trance-like  beauty." 

—  The  London  Athenaum. 

"These  poems  are  representative  of  the  highest  de 
gree  of  culture,  and  yet  instinct  with  the  simplicity  and 
directness  of  the  dweller  on  the  soil."  —  New  York  Sun. 

".  .  .  it  is  the  essence  of  all  poetry  of  East  and  West 
alike  —  the  language  of  the  soul."  —  The  Indian  Mag- 
azine  and, Review. 


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AMY   LOWELL'S   NEW   POEMS 


Can  Grande's  Castle 

BY  AMY  LOWELL 

Author  of  "  Six  French  Poets,"  "  A  Dome  of  Many- 
Coloured  Glass,"  "  Sword  Blades  and 
Poppy  Seed,"  etc. 

Cloth,  ismo 

This  book  contains  four  strange  and  moving  poems, 
in  which  history  suddenly  becomes  again  immediate 
reality.  Miss  Lowell's  extraordinary  vividness  of  pres 
entation  is  well  known,  and  nowhere  in  her  work  is  it 
more  in  evidence  than  in  this  volume.  A  series  of 
pictures  of  remarkable  power  which  range  from  Bourbon 
Italy  to  the  Battle  of  Trafalgar,  and  from  the  Triumph 
of  Titus  to  the  Austrian  air-raids  on  Venice  in  the  present 
war;  England,  Byzantium,  Japan,  seen  with  a  poet's 
vision,  as  backgrounds  for  the  terrible  drama  of  human 
life  and  passion.  The  poems  are  written  in  "polyphonic 
prose,"  a  new  poetic  form  which  admits  of  great  vigour 
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Toward  the  Gulf 

BY  EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 

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"  The  natural  child  of  Walt  Whitman  .  .  .  the  only  poet  with 
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—  JOHN  COWPER  POWYS  in  New  York  Times. 

"Toward  the  Gulf"  is  a  series  of  fearlessly  true  and  beautiful 
poems,  revealing  American  life  and  character  as  few  books  have 
done.  In  the  style  of  the  "  Spoon  River  Anthology,"  Mr.  Masters 
once  more  analyzes  grimly  but  truly  the  motive  of  human  conduct, 
and  skillfully  portrays  in  verse  form  the  life  and  thoughts  and 
ambitions  of  average  folk. 

Reincarnations 

BY  JAMES   STEPHENS 

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Mr.  Stephens  has  here  collected  a  series  of  poems  in  part  trans 
lations,  in  part  imitations  or  expansions  of  old  Irish  material 
chiefly  after  Raftery,  O'Rahilly  and  O'Brunadair.  "  Some  of  the 
poems,"  he  says,  "  owe  no  more  than  a  phrase,  a  line,  half  a  line  to 
the  Irish,  and  around  these  scraps  I  have  blown  a  bubble  of 
verse  and  made  my  poems." 

Lover's  Gift  and  Crossing 

BY  RABINDRANATH   TAGORE 

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"  Contains,  we  should  say,  perhaps  the  very  best  work  so  far  of 
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in  sheer  artistic  beauty,  these  little  word  etchings  are  unsurpassed 
in  current  literature  and  have  not  often  been  rivalled  in  any 
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